LOGINHey, my loves! It's Lady P❣️ here. 💋 We are officially 6 chapters into our journey, and I am so grateful to have you here with me. Every vote, every comment, every time you click that "next chapter" button — it means the world to me. ❤️ I want to hear from YOU. What do you think is locked inside that ring? Do you trust Xavia? Do you think Ezekiel will ever truly regret what he did? Drop your theories in the comments — I read EVERY SINGLE ONE of them. And who knows, your theory might just be closer to the truth than you think... 👀💭 This story is just beginning, and I promise you — the twists, the heartbreak, the fire, the redemption — it's all coming. So stick around, keep voting, and let's make this journey unforgettable together. 🔥📖 Your girl, Lady P❣️
The cell was small, cold, dark, and I had been in it long enough that I had stopped counting the days. I spent the first day trying to find a way out, checking the walls, the floor, the door, feeling along the stones for anything loose, anything I could use, and there was nothing because the cell was a box and I was trapped inside it. I spent the second day thinking about Xavia, about the way he looked at me when I said I loved him, about the way his voice cracked when he told me to run, about the blood on his hands and the tears on his face and the way he reached for me even when he could not stand. I did not know if he was alive or if he had survived the night, but I could still feel the bond, faint and far away like a whisper at the back of my mind, and I held onto it because it was the only thing I had. I spent the third day thinking about my mother, about the way she fought, about the way she got back up after being backhanded, about the way she looked at me when she said she w
The courtyard was small, surrounded by high stone walls, lit by a single torch that flickered in the cold wind. The gate was behind Commander Rhys, the only way out, and he was standing in front of it with his arms crossed and that smile on his face. I did not move. My mother was behind me, her hand wrapped around my arm, her breath shallow and fast. Xavia was beside me, his blade drawn, his body between me and the commander. "Hello, Elara," Rhys said again. "I don't know you." "You don't need to." He took a step forward. "You just need to come with me." "I'm not going anywhere with you." He laughed, a soft, quiet sound that did not reach his eyes. "You don't have a choice." "I always have a choice." "Not this time." He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. They came out of the shadows. Two from the left. Two from the right. Two from behind us. They moved like they had been trained for this, silent and precise, their weapons drawn, their eyes fixed on us. One was
We moved through the capital like ghosts, sticking to the shadows, sticking to the alleys, sticking to the places where the light didn't reach. The city was quiet this late at night, the kind of quiet that made every sound feel too loud, every footstep feel like a shout. The wind carried the smell of cold stone and smoke, and somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. Xavia walked in front, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, his eyes scanning every corner. My mother walked beside me, her hand wrapped around my arm, her breath coming fast and shallow. She was scared. I could feel it in the way she held me, in the way her fingers dug into my skin, but she didn't say a word. She just kept walking. The temple rose in front of us like a mountain, its spire cutting into the night sky. It was ancient. Older than the Council. Older than the packs. It had been built before the bond system, before the Alphas, before everything. It had been built when wolves were free. And now, it
The wanted poster sat between us like a death sentence, my face staring up from the paper, my name printed beneath it in bold, black letters. We had spent the rest of the night in silence. Xavia watched the window, my mother slept in the corner, and I sat against the wall with my knees drawn up to my chest, staring at the paper in my hands. My face stared back at me. The same face I had seen in the mirror a thousand times, the same face that had been rejected in front of three hundred wolves, the same face that had been exiled and erased and forgotten. And now, it was on a wanted poster. Ten thousand gold. That was what I was worth to them. Not a person, not a healer, not a daughter, just a bounty, just a target, just a number. By the time the sun rose, I had made my decision. "We go tonight," I said. Xavia turned to look at me, his jaw tight. "You can't be serious." "I'm very serious. They know we're here, which means we don't have time to wait. If we delay, they'll find u
The clearing went quiet after my father spoke, no one moved, no one breathed—the words hung in the air like smoke, thick and choking. The capital. Hidden in the old temple. Under the altar. I stared at him, my mind racing. The capital. The heart of the Council's power. The place where everything was controlled, where every decision was made, where every wolf was watched. Going there was suicide. We all knew it, but the journal was there, the truth was there, and I was not going to stop until I found it. "How do you know this?" I asked, my voice steady. "She told me," he said. "Before they took her. She said if anything ever happened to her, if she was ever captured, I was to find the journal and protect it. She said it was the only thing that could bring them down." "Then why didn't you go get it?" He looked away. "I was afraid." "Of course you were." "Elara—" "No." I held up my hand, and he stopped. "I'm not doing this again. I'm not listening to another apology, I'm
The camp went still. No one spoke. No one moved. The fire crackled, the wind blew, and the world kept turning, but in the clearing, everything had stopped. My mother stood frozen at the edge of the circle, her hand still raised where she had been shading her eyes. Remy and Lena had gone quiet. Even the rogue wolves, who had seen and survived things that would break most wolves, had gone still. And Xavia was there. He had moved to the edge of the clearing when we arrived, close enough to watch, far enough to give us space. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight, his amber eyes fixed on my father. He did not speak. He did not intervene. He just stood there, a steady presence at the edge of my vision, ready if I needed him. I stood in front of my father, the paper in my hand, his name staring back at him. He had not moved since I showed it to him. He had not looked away. He just sat there on the log, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his hands shaking i







